


In the Dark, the Dark and Deep

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Diabetes, Disabled Character, Gen, Neighbors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 19:10:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13130181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: Enjolras wishes his neighbor would turn down his phone; Grantaire wishes he had pasta and higher blood sugar levels.The impermeable wait of a midnight emergency sits like a lump between them.So it turns out middle of the night hypoglycemic lows with type one diabetes really suck.





	In the Dark, the Dark and Deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carbon65](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbon65/gifts).



> A treat for Carbon65, for the prompt "You're my neighbor, and your phone alarm keeps going off at weird hours. I keep trying to sleep until I go over to wake you up. Good thing, too, because it turns out middle of the night hypoglycemia is terrible. Or, the real reason Enjolras pushed Grantaire to move in with Joly.
> 
> Now featuring type I diabetes, constant glucose monitors, more alcohol than is likely advisable, bed head, slightly annoyed neighbors, and annoyed but slightly better friends. Romance optional." 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it and find it at least mostly accurate! I've done my best to keep it so, while acknowledging that Grantaire is not good at following directions at the best of times. <3
> 
> But this is supposed to be a nice thing, so if I fucked something up or it doesn't sit right, lemme know and I'll fix this/write you something else instead!
> 
> Anyway, all standard disclaimers still apply, and when reveals are up, I'll put a link to my tumblr where you can always find me!

His neighbor’s phone is going off again.

Bleary, Enjolras turns his face deeper into his pillow, trying determinedly to ignore the sound. If he’s lucky, this will be the only time it does, and he can fall back asleep.

He half-dozes, but the noise keeps going, and there’s no chance he can drop back into proper oblivion.

They haven’t lived here long, but Enjolras desperately hopes this isn’t going to be habitual.

Again. Or still.

Exasperated and exhausted, Enjolras throws his covers back and rolls off the bed. It’s just his bad luck to share a wall with their neighbor. It’s all well and good for Combeferre to suggest that perhaps there are extenuating circumstances or Courfeyrac to point out that maybe the neighbor isn’t aware of the issue, but Enjolras is _tired_.

He’s been working late this whole week, both for work and society matters, paperwork still stacked on top of his laptop to get back to in the morning. He just wants to _sleep_.

Instead, he threads his arms through a cardigan and walks soundlessly past Courfeyrac’s door, and then Combeferre’s, still blinking the shadowy sleep from his eyes.

“Why are you still _up_?” he asks Combeferre, faintly amused but not all that surprised to find him lying on the sofa, his feet propped up on the arm and book held above his head.

“Because they just got married but she hasn’t told her that she’s desperately in love with her yet, and I won’t have time to read until Saturday, and I can’t wait that long,” Combeferre tells him, glancing up from the page, squinting a bit in the way that suggests he’s spent too long focused on small text. “Neighbor’s phone, again?”

“Mmhm,” Enjolras hums, dragging his hair away from his face. “I’ll do my best to be polite, I promise.”

Combeferre, attention already drifting back to his book, offers a thumbs up.

Enjolras pats his shin on the way to the door, and jams his feet into his shoes.

It’s two in the morning and the hallway is eerie in its absolute silence, in the swimming feeling of being groggily roused in the middle of a sleep cycle.

He’s almost too tired to be irritated, honestly, as he knocks at the door.

Silence, stretching.

He knocks again, louder.

Another pause, and then:

“S’open,” someone calls from inside, voice rough, like maybe he’s roused them from sleep.

Maybe the neighbor fell asleep on the couch, and left their phone in their room? Maybe that means they can both get back to sleep in just a moment.

Not that Enjolras can really fathom just… _inviting an unknown knocker into an apartment_.

Warily, he turns the knob and pushes the door easily open.

The neighbor, who he’s passed by at the front door a few times, is sprawled cross-legged in the middle of the room, squinting up in Enjolras’ general direction.

“Sorry to bother you,” Enjolras starts slowly, taken aback, reminding himself he’d _just_ told Combeferre he’d be polite and trying to keep the disdainful, irritated edge out of his voice. “It’s just that your phone volume is turned up pretty high, could you please turn it down?”

“It’s uh, it’s not my phone,” Neighbor says, waving a hand a bit vaguely. He looks pale and sweaty, swaying a little in place, head tilted a little to the side as he peers narrowly up at Enjolras. “It’s, uh. It’s, fuck, why can’t I words.”

“… Would you like me to call you an ambulance?” Enjolras asks with dawning concern and furrowed brows. A high fever, maybe? Or something else that calls for dire medical attention. He’s trying for the most generous interpretation here.

“No, uh. Uh.” He waves his hand again, this time at the waistband of his sleep pants, where he’s clipped some manner of transmitter with a wire running up under his shirt. Medical, then? Maybe. “Look, hate to ask, can you give me a hand? There’s, uh, over there –”

Neighbor raises a trembling hand in the direction of the kitchen. He looks up at Enjolras with wide, anxious eyes, shaky and disoriented.

Enjolras frowns deeper, uncertain, but Neighbor seems… very distraught. He just wants to go back to _bed_ , but he should help. Feuilly would help, even in the middle of the night, and Feuilly’s a good benchmark for kindness. If there’s reason to be irritated, Enjolras will just… be irritated in the morning. At least it looks like there’s a paper on the refrigerator.

“Signs of hypoglycemia,” it proclaims, and Enjolras is _not_ qualified for this, beyond the fact that he’s here and no one else is. He leans in to look closer – pallor, sweating, shaking, blurry vision, and fatigue are all listed as symptoms.

The last of his irritability drains away, replaced with sympathy, because he _hates_ low blood sugar and it has to be exponentially worse with diabetes, especially if Neighbor is at the point of sitting on the floor rather than treating it. Calm practicality washing over him, Enjolras scans the rest of the sheet for instructions.

He opens the fridge, glancing around for fruit juice or a can of soda. A half-empty bottle of apple juice sits at the front of a shelf, so he pulls it out and turns to find a glass. There’s a shelf of them, good, he doesn’t have to waste time rifling through cupboards.

Enjolras turns on a light as he passes it and takes the half glass of juice back over to Neighbor, whose face is firmly planted in his hands, thumbs pressing hard against his temples like he has a headache.

For lack of any better options, Enjolras drops down to sit in front of him.

“Right, you’re having a hypoglycemic episode,” Enjolras says, evenly as he can, trying to imitate Courfeyrac’s comforting, steady mannerisms. “Your paper says to check your blood sugar before giving you something to treat it. Should I look for your glucose meter?”

Neighbor shakes his head. “ ‘S recorded and I _really_ need to eat or drink something, fuck. Thanks.”

“Alright.” Enjolras holds out the glass of juice. “Well, I got you some apple juice. And don’t worry about it, it’s… fine. I’m Enjolras, by the way.”

“Grantaire,” Grantaire replies brusquely, looking up at last and recoiling slightly at the increase in light. He reaches out to take the glass, hand trembling wildly. He looks at the cup for a handful of long moments, like he’s trying to remember how it works, then drains it all in a go.

Enjolras folds his hands in his lap, not sure what else to do for the moment, feeling stiff and awkward on the hardwood floor. “Should I call someone for you?”

Grantaire just holds up a shaky finger, asking him to wait, as the noise Enjolras had thought was his phone sounds again, an urgent beeping. He buries his face back in his hands, tremors shaking his shoulders, shirt soaked through with sweat.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, long enough that drowsiness starts to fall back on Enjolras’ shoulders and he has to muffle a yawn in his elbow. His attention drifts about the room – it’s messy, in a rumpled, lived-in way, books precariously perched on shelves and trinkets stacked on tables. There’s a piece of cross-stitch on the wall, “Keep your fucking shit together” surrounded by cheerful flowers, and Enjolras is reminded very much of Bahorel.

“Sorry,” Grantaire mutters, at length, seeming to come back to himself slightly. “Fuck hypos, honestly. It’s the middle of the goddamn night.”

“Does this happen often?” Enjolras asks, wishing he’d thought to bring his phone or Combeferre, who has a much better bedside manner.

Grantaire shakes his head, scrubbing at his face. “Nope, but probably more than it should? I drank too daringly and too much earlier. It was stupid.”

Enjolras’ mouth crimps in a frown, not entirely sure what to say to that, because nothing that leaps to mind is a _kind_ thing to say.

“No, fuck off, I am still sitting here realizing I could have died or dropped into a coma if you hadn’t shown up to complain about my CGM going off,” Grantaire snaps, wild and bitter. Defensive tension curls in his shoulders. “Can you save the judgment for like, fifteen fucking minutes?”

Enjolras just looks at him flatly, annoyed, but has to allow that, yes, the possibility of a medical emergency probably doesn’t make someone feel very generous. His own uncharitable mood probably doesn’t help him come across graciously, either.

Grantaire sighs heavily a few tense moments later, flopping down onto his back and flinging an arm over his face with a groan.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m not the greatest person, like, generally, and lows make me irritable as fuck. I might actually kill someone for some fucking pasta at this point. Not on you, dude.”

“I mean… it’s a fair reason to be annoyed,” Enjolras replies, running his fingers through his hair to drag it back from his face. “And no one is their best self at two in the morning. I can get you some pasta, if you’ve any in the fridge.”

“Fuck two in the morning,” Grantaire agrees. “I also have no pasta, which is a goddamn tragedy of the highest order.”

They lapse into silence again as the minutes tick by, only broken by Grantaire asking Enjolras to grab his glucose meter and phone from the table.

There’s a surreal quality to the relative silence of Paris in the middle of the night, muffled sounds of traffic occasionally drifting through, and the dim yellow coronas of lamplight throwing the room into vague relief. The impermeable wait of a midnight emergency sits like a lump between them, dull tension stretching indefinitely.

Grantaire’s hand trembles until he manages to prick his finger like it’s nothing and frowns at the results on the screen. “Still low.”

Enjolras rouses himself a little more, still drooping, and arches to stretch out his back. “Should I get you some more juice?”

“Mm-hm,” Grantaire agrees, still shaky and sweat-soaked. He looks maybe slightly less pale, if not _well_. “And actual food, I am starving, this is the _worst_.”

So Enjolras pushes himself to his feet and goes to refill the glass, only to find he left the juice container on the counter. This time, after pouring, he sticks it back in the fridge and reads over the notes pasted to the front of it. He judiciously scans through the meager contents of the fridge and finds a container of curry topped rice, and shuffles back into the living room.

Grantaire lifts the glass in a mockery of a toast, almost drops it, and steadies it with his other hand before he drinks, sipping rather more slowly this time.

“Thanks, again,” he says, with a raw edge of vulnerability. Or maybe fatigue. “Sorry for waking you up. I appreciate the assist, though. You’re a god among men, a saint among sinners, a kinder person than I will ever be.”

“I’m glad I came by when I did,” Enjolras replies, opting to ignore the last statement entirely. He means it sincerely, Grantaire’s pointed comment from earlier still sticking under his skin. “Really, though, would you like me to call someone?”

Grantaire lets out a gusty sigh and half tosses, half fumbles his phone at Enjolras. He snatches up the container of leftovers in its place, digging in haphazardly with no apparent distaste for the fact that it’s stone cold. “You could text Joly? He’s my ICE contact.”

“Not Adrien Joly?” Enjolras asks, startled, even as he catches the phone and slides the screen open. It’s a fairly common name, but he can’t imagine as many of them go by their surname as his friend does.

“The very same!” Grantaire sits up a little straighter, exhausted listlessness vanishing briefly under open fondness. “You know him?”

“We’re part of the same group,” Enjolras tells him, scanning the recent texts for Joly’s name or familiar number. The whole thread appears to be a convoluted series of puns and emoji, which sounds very much like Joly. “He’s a good friend.”

Grantaire beams between bites of curry and rice. “He is! He, Bossuet, and Musichetta are rare gems of people. But, uh, you can just fill him and he’ll probably give me a call so you can actually get back to bed like a normal person?”

Enjolras nods, picking his words carefully as he types. It looks stilted and awkward to his eyes, but it will do for a two thirty text.

<Hi,> he writes, <this is Enjolras. Grantaire had a hypoglycemic low (apparently we’re neighbors) and said you ought to know. Doing what I can, but advice welcome.>

<Enjolras, hi!> Joly sends back less than a minute later. <Oh, R. Tell him am on way and will call when out of house. Also M + B do not forgive him for text tone, owes them coffee in AM. Thanks for help! All should be on fridge poster.>

Despite himself, Enjolras smiles, amused and affectionate, before looking back to Grantaire. “Joly says he’s on his way and will give you a call shortly. And that Musichetta and Bossuet say you owe them coffee for your text tone.”

Grantaire bursts out laughing, even if he does absently bring a hand up to his head as if to steady himself. If he still looks a little listless, at least there’s more color in his cheeks. “Right. Well. Thank you for your help.”

“Would you like me to wait until he gets here?” Enjolras offers out of courtesy, awake long enough that he could stand to be so for another half hour.

He shakes his head, running his hands through his hair, which just makes it into a worse thicket. “Nah, but thanks. If you don’t mind sticking around until I can test again, that’d be great. Then you can, y’know, get back to sleep.”

“I can do that.” Enjolras thinks if he were a closer friend, he might assure Grantaire it wasn’t a problem to wait. As it is, he’s doing what he can.

Grantaire grins at him, still sallow but clearly starting to feel somewhat better. There’s an edgy nervousness that’s eased, leaving him languid and worn out. “Don’t worry, Joly will lecture me for you. I’ll bake you something as thanks. Do you have allergies?”

“No, but one of my roommates is allergic to chocolate.” Enjolras stretches, cracking his back.

“Non-chocolate baked goods, got it,” Grantaire says, setting aside his empty container and scrubbing at his face again. “Sorry again, about all this. Fuck.”

Enjolras just shakes his head, absently stretching out his wrists. They get tight, these days. Another broad expanse of quiet as they wait a few more minutes, only interrupted by Grantaire’s glucose monitor beeping, quickly silenced.

“Almost there, at least?” Grantaire offers, once he pricks his finger again, exhausted now that the situation seems mostly resolved. “If you give me a hand up, I can just go sit on the couch with an orange?”

“I can do that,” Enjolras agrees. He helps Grantaire to his feet, trying not to make a face at the lingering clamminess of his hands. “Half an orange? I don’t want to get murdered for pasta, but I also don’t want Joly to make disapproving faces at me.”

“Ugh, half an orange, fine,” Grantaire grumbles, long-suffering but not quite so snappish. “Joly is a _tyrant_.”

Grantaire wobbles his way to the couch, dumping his meter and phone on the cushion beside him in a disgusted pile. He accepts his half an orange from Enjolras and twitches a smile at him, wry and surprisingly charming. “Thanks, again.”

“Like I said, I’m glad I could help.” Enjolras awkwardly reaches out and touches Grantaire’s upper arm briefly. “And glad you’re feeling a little better. If something happens before Joly gets here, just… bang on the wall, I guess?”

“Will do,” Grantaire says, with another huff of tired laughter.

Enjolras nods at him once and retreats from Grantaire’s apartment, closing the door quietly behind him, and yawns as he walks back up the hall.

The door’s been left unlocked and a lamp is still on, but Combeferre must have retreated to his room to finish his book. Drowsy, the insistent nagging of interrupted sleep catching up to him again, Enjolras leaves his shoes by the door, locks up, and returns to his room, all but diving under the thick layers of blankets. They’ve lost their heat by now, leaving him shivering faintly as he nestles into them.

Still, he doesn’t quite fall asleep, keeping an ear out as he balances on the edge of awareness.

Finally, he hears what he thinks are footsteps in the hall, a quiet knock in the distance. Joly must have just gotten here.

It relaxes him enough that he lets himself fall a little deeper into the dark, fuzzy feeling of drifting toward sleep, wrung out.

A quiet ding startles him free of it, and he gropes about for his phone, squinting at the bright screen until he can make out Joly’s text:

<You guys should join us + R for brunch/lunch day after tomorrow. Propel those friendships! R and I both say thanks for your help tonight, you are safe from pasta-homicide.>

Smiling quietly, Enjolras texts back an affirmative and shoves his phone back under an adjacent pillow.

In the uninterrupted quiet and warm pressure of blankets and half-sure he can hear the murmur of voices beyond the wall, Enjolras drops slowly and steadily back into sleep.


End file.
